"Push the interrogation to the afternoon."
Silence on the other end for two seconds. Luca'd been with me eight years; he rarely questioned, but this silence was one.
"Enzo, Mark's been in the warehouse all night. The guys are waiting. The longer we drag, the more risks—you know that."
"I said afternoon." I was impatient, but since it was Luca, I didn't hang up.
"Something wrong?"
"Nothing. Got something more important."
Another two seconds. "More important than a traitor?"
My patience was thinner than I thought. No explanation—I hung up. Luca'd handle it, even if he thought his boss was losing it.
I drove to the jewelry company.
Arrived at 8:10, building just waking up, lobby with a few early birds who snapped alert and stepped aside at my sight. I was used to it.
In my top-floor office, coffee half-gone, I hit the intercom.
"Katherine, get Chloe Bennett from fifth floor up here. Our talk got cut short by the elevator glitch."
Perfect excuse—logical, businesslike, airtight. Yesterday, she'd cussed me out publicly; as president, calling in a misbehaving employee was standard.
Intercom paused.
"Mr. Falcone, one moment."
Three minutes later, knock at my door. Katherine came in with a white envelope. Her face stayed pro-calm, but her fingers lingered a second setting it down.
"Miss Bennett left this at the reception last night. She asked security to pass it to you."
"That's it?"
"Yes." Katherine left, closing the door softer than usual.
I ripped it open. Inside, a folded A4 sheet—standard resignation format. Addressed to Falcone Jewels HR, body short and half-assed:Chloe Bennett resigning immediately for personal reasons, thanks for the opportunity.
Dated yesterday.
She quit.
I stared at the paper for five seconds, flipped it—blank back. Shook the envelope—cash tumbled out onto my desk, with a torn notepad scrap underneath, handwritten, legible if not pretty.
"Mr. Falcone, thanks for yesterday's service. Technique was average, but since it's your side gig not main, I won't nitpick. Enclosed: $1500, per NYC market rate—might be overpaying. Best in your main and side hustles. Chloe Bennett."
I read it once, double-checked.
This woman treated me like a gigolo. Not only did she bolt after, she left cash. Priced the Falcone heir at fifteen hundred bucks, and rated me average.
I set the note down, arms crossed, leaning back.
A designer scraping by on under fifty grand a year daring to humiliate me like this.
I was pissed enough to laugh, fingers crumpling the note like I wanted to do to Chloe Bennett.
Average technique? Bold words from the woman who'd begged for it yesterday.
